


The Personal Utopia of Eternal Bliss

by ferrymansdaughter



Category: my own fantastic mind
Genre: Other, a piece of prose written in the second person, the narrator is the author speaking to themself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24197752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferrymansdaughter/pseuds/ferrymansdaughter
Summary: Little pebble upon the sandNow you're lying here in my handHow many years have you been here?Little human upon the sandFrom where I'm lying here in your handYou to me are but a passing breezeThe sun will always shine where you standDepending in which land you may find yourselfNow you have my blessing, go your way—Happiness Runs, Donovan Leitch





	The Personal Utopia of Eternal Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> A dreamer's lament for freedom, peace, and solitude.

You know that feeling when you stay up really late because you don't want to deal with the responsibilities that are expected of you once tomorrow comes? And you think to yourself how much you could accomplish if you were free of those responsibilities? And you remember that the life you could've had is in a different time where this want of freedom and detachment was not accepted per-say, but certainly written about and experienced to a greater degree? Everyone cared about peace of mind, peace of heart, being at one with the universe and all the living beings in it. You just want to live like that; free, happy, at peace. But you know you'll never achieve that dream if you want to make it in the capitalist society we live in. So all you can do is imagine a world in which you could live freely, as you wanted to. A world in which you could choose not to be plagued by modern technology or ideology.

So you imagine a beach. No one there. Only you, the birds, the waves, the dunes, the breeze, the sand, the sun, the calm. You have a small wooden bungalow on the beach, a little further back so the tide can't reach it. The wood that makes up your home is painted light blue, the paint is peeling off, but you don't care. You have a little stove, a few pots and pans— rusty but useful, not too many windows, but there's one that looks out onto the beach. The glass in the windows is old and thin, it could break very easily, it might already be a bit broken.

There's a little bench inside your bungalow, it's also wooden and painted blue with the paint peeling off. On the bench, you have a record player where you can play your music. Next to the bench is a wooden crate full of vinyl records. Nothing hard; no Zeppelin, no Beatles, no Bowie, no Queen, no Elton John, none of that. Only peaceful music. You have some Donovan records, some Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Simon & Garfunkel, Tyrannosaurus Rex— the early psychedelic folk records, maybe a bit of early Pink Floyd— also psychedelic. The only rock'n'roll you might have is possibly some Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Buddy Holly. Nothing else. You don't need anything else. 

You might have a nice beach chair to lie down on, one on the little terrace outside the bungalow, and one inside, near the record player. You could sit there for hours on end listening to your music, at peace. You have a bedroom with two windows: one looking out to the beach, and one to the dunes. Over your bed, there's a painting of a sailboat. All over the house, you have nautical items; small anchors, ropes, flags, cords, etc. You have a small lavatory with a little window over the mirror over the sink to let some light in, if you were to look through it you would see the dunes. In your bedroom, there's a wooden wardrobe, painted white with the paint peeling off. Inside you have white or floral print sundresses, very light, you barely even feel them when you're wearing them. one or two pairs of sandals to walk in some areas of the dunes, but you mostly go around barefoot.

You have a small study opposite the lavatory where you have a desk and bookshelves. On your desk, you have paper made from papyrus leaves, quill and ink if you ever need to write. You'll write stories, poems, thoughts, feelings, anything. On the opposite wall, where your bookshelves cover the surface, you have poetry. Long narrative poems. You'll have stories, some classics, some unknown. You also have some textbooks. You learned Latin completely, same with Greek. Near your chair and record player, you keep your acoustic guitar. You learned to play. You play for yourself, the birds, the fish, the rabbits, the flowers, anything that might come round.

If you go up past the dunes far enough, you'll have your mail box. It's the nearest thing to civilisation you have. If you want to write a letter to a library or any place that might have something you require like soap, books, paper, a new guitar string, a record, anything, you'll send it through there. You've never met the postman but you know they come because you always have the week's paper. You take a strange pleasure in knowing what's going on in the world and knowing that it doesn't concern or affect you at all. As for money, you have enough saved up to buy you what you need and you send it over along with your letter. While you keep your money in the drawers of your desk, it doesn't mean anything to you.

You have an easel on your terrace. You can make your own natural paint from most fruit but if you need something else, you can just write a letter to town and get paint delivered to you. You'll paint the sea, the waves, the nature. It doesn't need to be perfect, you're doing it for yourself and no one else.

You'll walk out onto the beach at any time; during the day you can hear the seagulls flying overhead, the sun touches your skin and makes the water glimmer and shine as if it were magic; at night the wind is stronger, you feel the power of nature as the tide comes in closer. sometimes you'll dip your feet into the water, sometimes you swim and float around in it, you're still wearing your dress but you don't care. You never go too far out, you stay on the shallow side. It's much more peaceful there anyway.

To get the salt out of your hair, you walk to the dunes, your feet covered in sand and your dress dripping water behind you. There's a stream in the dunes with a small cascade of water over some rocks; you can bathe there. It's the same place you get your drinking water from; it's naturally filtered by the rocks carpeting the riverbed, so you can fill buckets of it. As for food, there's no need for cruelty, no need for animals to get hurt. You live off berries, fruits, edible plants, maybe the odd fish once in a while. You can find herbs and spices in the dunes, you don't need anything too elaborate.

You spend your days reading, writing, listening to music, wandering along the shore, exploring the dunes, dancing in the day, dancing in the night, swimming in the stream, swimming in the sea, running and rolling in the grass in the dunes, playing and dancing in the sand on the beach, painting what you see, writing what you feel, experiencing your life in a timeless cycle. You're solitary, but not alone. It's pure bliss. No worries, expectations, or responsibilities. Your life is yours and you live it for you. You're at peace. You're free.

Just _imagine_.


End file.
